


A Different Way to Care

by Imiaslavie



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (short-termed and not really serious), Background logince - Freeform, Belly Kink, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feeding Kink, Hand Feeding, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Starvation, Weight Gain, feederism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 22:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imiaslavie/pseuds/Imiaslavie
Summary: Remy takes his job very seriously. More than that, he loves taking care of his boys. Which is why Virgil's stubbornness and outright refusals to accept Remy's help make him really angry... and worried.Or, Remy finds another, unconventional ways to provide care.





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, this a slow-burning feederism fic. Someone, let's not point any fingers, got me really invested in this kink, so I just had to try my hand at it — and try to do things my way. Things will get intimate, things will escalate... But also they will be soft. I want to make things feel natural.
> 
> Dedicated to 3.5 people in this fandom who have this kink.
> 
> Not beta-ed.

Remy likes his job.

He likes saying _Goodnight_ to Thomas when he is one blink away from completely falling asleep. He likes making sure Logan doesn’t work through the whole night. He likes to check the temperature in Deceit's room to make sure he won't go cold at night. He likes properly tucking Patton into bed when he falls asleep across it, still dressed down to his shoes. He likes listening to the hilarious things Remus mumbles in his sleepy state. He likes when Roman puts a carefully crafted dream into his hands so he could use it.

Virgil isn’t interested in his help. Not one bit.

He ignores Remy’s attempts to get him to go to bed. He falls into the nothingness of sleep incredibly fast, like a lightbulb going out, making Remy’s head hurt when Virgil’s presence in the back of his head goes out sharply (as opposed to others’ hums quieting down slowly). Virgil refuses his help. He hisses, shouts, curses, growls. Or, more shortly, he bitches.

Remy can’t stand it. The thing is, Remy is a caretaker. He doesn’t fulfil his function simply because he has to. He truly, really loves doing it. Craves it. And it rubs him the wrong way, not being able to be of use to the one he considers the closest friend.

And with so many important events, conventions, videos and whatnots planned, Virgil is in a constant state of alert, working overtime, dutifully controlling Thomas’ state — and double- and triple-checking all their plans and scripts.

In addition to barely sleeping, he stops eating normally, the fact that makes Patton really sad. Remy really, really doesn’t like when one of his babes is sad. Which is why when one day Patton gives him a bowl with tiny baked rolls filled with what smells like strawberries and asks him to give those to Virgil, Remy is happy to oblige. He would not only give them, he would make sure the little stubborn bitch eats all of them (the feat Patton would not be able to do due to Virgil’s room affecting him too strongly).

When Remy sinks into Virgil’s room, he doesn’t acknowledge his arrival at all. Just keeps writing something on the top page of a weighty stack of bind papers. His table is a flurry of notebooks, crumpled balls of paper, markers of any color imaginable, stacks of CDs, fidgeting toys. A mess both sides of Creativity would be proud of.

Remy props up a chair near the desk, facing Virgil, his phone in one hand and the bowl of pastries in another, and offers the latter to Virgil. He just grumbles, lips curling distastefully, and keeps writing his notes on the margins.

“I promised our dear-darling Dad you would eat,” Remy says, not at all impressed by Virgil’s behavior.

“Mm-hm… And I should care why?” Virgil quips back, still fully concentrated on the paper.

“Because it’s your body and you should give it some fuel from time to time?”

Virgil glares at him from under the fringe.

Remy sighs. “C’mon, babes, just take a small break. It’d be good.”

“Can’t. I’m just in the right mood to work. Don’t want to lose it.”

“Don’t you have two hands?”

Virgil pauses his writing. He shifts in his chair, his hoodie falling open, and shows Remy the string of beads clutched tightly in his other hand. His fingers are counting through the beads, the elastic band straining between them.

“I really don’t. So stop pestering me and go away.”

Pestering? _Pestering?_ Remy will show him pestering. With an angry huff, he grabs one roll from his lap and shoves it right under Virgil’s nose.

Virgil recoils and then gives him a glare worse than before. Remy glares back.

“I won’t leave until you eat all of this, and if I have to feed you, I fucking will. Stop bitching.” Remy pushes the pastry against Virgil’s lips. “_Eat_, or I will never leave your room.”

And just when Remy starts feeling really angry, Virgil parts his lips, quickly bites on the pastry and takes it into his mouth. They are so small there’s almost nothing to chew, so Remy is quick to offer another one. This one Virgil catches into his mouth almost instantly, his pen resuming its work. Remy rolls his eyes, mouthing a soundless _Fucking finally_ and offers the next pastry. This time Virgil’s eyes don’t even flick to look at it. They quickly settle into a steady rhythm, Virgil — completely concentrated on his thrice-goddamned work, Remy — dutifully feeding him.

Definitely not the evening Remy envisioned, but… Something eases inside of his heart. Virgil is here, silent and more-or-less relaxed, and Remy… well. Takes care of him. Not in his usual way, but still.

It’s something.

When Remy reaches into the bowl and realizes it’s empty, his nails scraping the black matted ceramics, he feels a little bit disappointed.

***

Not that Remy actually hoped that some pastries would fill Virgil’s stomach enough to make him go to bed without being hungry, but the wave of disappointment still hit him hard when that night Virgil refused to fall asleep with the usual amount of stubbornness.

Patton is ecstatic to hear that Virgil ate at least something, looking at Remy with starry eyes and stating that he could never manage to cajole Virgil to eat when he doesn’t want to. Probably never crossed his mind to shove food into the stubborn fool’s mouth, Remy thinks, and offers to go again. Everyone seems to benefit from it, so why the hell not?

This time, Remy enters Virgil’s room with a plate of bite-sized pieces of fruit. Again, not the most filling of things, but it’s something.

Seeing Virgil’s look of deep concentration and white-knuckled grip he has on the beads string, Remy doesn’t bother with saying hello or starting another match of wits. He simply sits on the same place as yesterday (Virgil didn’t bother to move the chair), sets the plate on the low stack of books sitting on the table and silently offers Virgil a crispy-white piece of an apple.

To Remy’s surprise, Virgil eagerly leans his chin forward, catching it with his teeth. Seems someone really is hungry. Remy lets himself chuckle, softly, careful not to distract Virgil, his fingers already grabbing a neat piece of pear. Virgil eats that, and then a couple of cherries with already extracted seeds, a mandarin segment, one big watermelon piece, apple again. Patton really did his best.

Remy offers Virgil piece after piece, listening to the sharp sound of the pen marring the pages, to the beads clucking against each other between Virgil’s fingers, to the almost inaudible curses that sometimes fall from Virgil’s mouth.

It all is surprisingly relaxing.

When the plate is empty, Remy stands up, ready to leave just as silently as he’s arrived. And just before he sinks out, he catches the sight of Virgil’s hastily licking his lips, quite probably trying to get off the drying sweetness of fruit juices.

***

After three more days of hard work on Sides’ part and three more visits to Virgil’s room on Remy’s part (them going through three more plates of assorted fruits and discovering Virgil’s distaste for kiwi), the script for Thomas’ panel is finalized, meaning everyone could finally have a rest.

It feels like an eternity since the last time all seven of them gathered behind one table for a family dinner. Remy is ready to admit that he missed it. Missed how Patton chats incessantly; how Logan interrupts him with his own tale simply to let Patton finally eat something and how Remus interrupts _him_ with a tale far more ridiculous; how Deceit and Roman swap food between their plates, offering one another the bits they like most; how Virgil… well. Is Virgil. In his _I-worked-for-a-week-straight-with-no-breaks_ state. He doesn't engage in the conversation and looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, but sometimes Remy would catch him smiling softly at one of the other Sides, and his little smiles are nothing but precious to him.

Remy offers his thanks to Patton for the dinner, practically purring with joy. Everyone feels a bit sleepy on their pleasantly full stomachs, and with the perfect timing of the dinner, the feeling will dissipate naturally just so everyone could peacefully go to sleep without their bodies working through the meal. Remy enjoys the intense wish for sleep while it lasts, and he can’t wait for everyone to depart for their bedrooms. Tonight’s sleep is going to be the best everyone has had in some weeks.

Of course, nothing can go perfect. Virgil announces he is going to go over some Shorts’ and Shoutouts’ ideas. Patton takes his word that he isn’t going to work too hard and asks if he wants something to snack on. Virgil nods, receives a plate with eight neat fourths of two apples, and sinks out… Not before darting a quick glance at Remy.

Remy snorts. He wasn’t giving that much of a death glare to Virgil, honestly. There was no need to call him out like that.

When the night falls, Remy starts thinking that he should have glared with more vigor. Everyone is fast asleep, content and enjoying a simple but pleasant dream Roman has lovingly created for all of them. There are six soft noises humming quietly at the back of Remy’s mind, one for the Sides and one for Thomas.

Virgil’s noise is giving Remy a headache.

The heavy sleepiness Virgil has felt after the dinner has evaporated completely instead of decreasing naturally and shifting into the tiredness.

Just before 11 PM, the noise dies down with its usual suddenness, making Remy wince. Fell asleep after all.

They’re going to have some strong words tomorrow.

***

Thomas grins at him the next morning, a silent thanks for a great night of sleep, and Remy’s irritation fades a little. After all, everyone else had a good night. Remy’s really happy about that.

Still. One really poorly behaving boy needs to be told about how bad he is.

Knowing that Virgil has been awake for almost an hour now, Remy sinks into his room, sipping at his cold tea as obnoxiously as he can.

Virgil is sprawled on the rug in the middle of the floor, headphones, lying near his head, blasting something really heavy. Remy’s eyes study the room, looking for something out of place, something that might hint at what soured Virgil’s mood yesterday. There’s nothing. The usual mess of clothes, of papers, water bottles, the same pile of papers on the table as usual… Remy squints.

And an untouched plate of apples, pieces colored light brown. Huh. And why, pray tell, did he ask for them?

“What do you want?”

Remy quirks an eyebrow. “A whole lotta things. From you? To go to bed at appropriate times.”

“Eleven is an appropriate time, fuck off.”

“Not in the state you went, it isn’t. Care to tell me what pissed you off so thoroughly yesterday?” Remy takes the chair he has already silently dubbed as his, throws one leg over another.

Virgil sits up, his hair a mess, eyeshadow smudged, showing off the real dark circles under his eyes.

“Last time I checked, you were in charge of sleeping, not mood swings.”

“I’m expanding,” Remy parries, smiling overly-sweetly. His free hand reaches for the piece of apple. He takes a bite: it went a bit soft, and he doesn’t like too much when fruits are warm, but it’s still nice enough.

Virgil’s eyes gleam. He stands up, grunting softly, and walks up to Remy, staring down at him.

“Expand somewhere else,” he says. “And stop eating my food.”

Remy cocks his head to the side. “What, this?” He bites into another slice. “Didn’t seem like you wanted it. Bad for you. It’s really nice.” Virgil just glares at him harder. Smirking, Remy reaches for another piece.

Virgil grabs his hand when it’s halfway back to his lips. Remy stills, trying to read Virgil’s face. He doesn’t resist when Virgil tugs his arm up…

He inhales sharply when Virgil leans down and takes a bite of the piece. It crunches softly as Virgil chews. He then takes another bite, this time almost touching Remy’s skin with his lips. The slice slowly becomes smaller and smaller until there’s only a tiny chunk between the tips of Remy’s fingers. Somehow, Virgil manages to gather it up in his tongue without it ever touching Remy — and Remy manages to let go just at the right time for it to work.

Virgil gives him a last one glance, lets go of his hand and sits down on his big leather chair, leaning over a spiral-bind notebook, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the table. Remy watches him take a pen with a chewed-on cap, open a clean page and start writing. A very familiar sight, the one Remy almost got used to this past week, while he was sharing Virgil’s company as he worked on the scripts.

The scripts… Remy’s eyes dart to the half-full plate of apples.

Moving very slowly, he puts his tea somewhere on the floor. He conjures a small knife in his left palm, grabs an apple slice with another, and cuts off a piece. And in a very familiar gesture — offers it to Virgil. And maybe it’s just Remy’s imagination, but the furrow between Virgil’s eyebrows lessens just a bit, and his lips curl not as bitterly as before.

When Virgil takes the apple into his mouth and relaxes even more, Remy exhales in something that he would never admit was relief.


	2. Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags are updated.
> 
> Uh, I have mentioned that it's slow-burn, right? Right. Also special thanks to @pontsalin for inspiring the first half of the chapter...... :)

Remy is very rarely surprised. He is far too smart and far too chill to be caught unawares about this-or-thats happening each goddamn day in the Mindscape. Not to mention that since he doesn't sleep, ever, he has much more time to learn things and grow tired of them. So, yes, it is very hard to genuinely surprise Remy.

So when one day Logan comes up to Remy and gives him a tight sure hug from behind, Remy simply acts as if what’s happening is par for the course.

Remy soaks up the feeling of strong arms wrapped gently around him, the rim of Logan's glasses firm against Remy's nape. While he stays silent, Logan thanks him for being a positive force in Virgil's life. There's something said about maintaining schedule, attitude, the decreased number of times Remus has managed to coax Virgil into having a hissing match (like, literally, those idiots hiss at each other like a pair of wild cats)... It's all blah-blah-blah to Remy's ears. He just smiles widely, salutes Logan with his Starbucks and says it's always a pleasure. As Logan walks away, Remy makes a quick mental note to tattle to Patton about Logan going around and smothering people with hugs. It will totally make his day.

Remy sips on his cold green tea absentmindedly, taking a carton of milk from the fridge. He never gave it much thought, to that 'bringing positive change to Virgil's life' thing. Looking over Virgil was just something Remy did, what he was supposed to do. And if the way he did was out of his usual roster of offers... Well. Never let it be said he isn't capable of adapting.

Remy places two croissants on a warmed up plate (they're hot, but he is too lazy to grab the tongs), and the plate goes onto the tray with the mug of coffee, milk and sugar. A properly arranged breakfast (let no one accuse him of being sloppy, okay?). The smell of pastries honestly makes his mouth water, and if he hasn't already had three of them, he surely would steal a bite. Curse Logan for being a god of baking.

“I gotta stop being surprised at how good you are at knowing when to come,” Virgil says in lieu of a greeting, bending his neck right then left. His hair is all mussed, no shadow smudged under his eye, small satisfied smile at the corners of his lips.

“Good? Bitch, I'm _perfect_ at what I do,” Remy shots back, placing the tray on the table. The clusterfuck of papers, pens, books and toys from weeks earlier is long gone. The table is quite clean now sans for a small pile of burger wrappers and opened sauce dip-pots. There's a stack of paper towels near the side where Remy's chair is and a pack of wipes.

And of _course_ Remy knows when to come. He knows when everyone wakes up, and he can faintly feel their energy levels if he concentrates. And now he has the first-hand experience of seeing Virgil wake up and become a functioning human being, knows how long it takes for him to stop being a walking zombie and to start feeling hungry.

Virgil just hums. He stands in the middle of the room, on the huge soft carpet, stretching his body. He reaches towards the ceiling with his arms, standing on his toes, his shirt riding up. It's as soft and unthreatening as Virgil ever looks. Remy lets himself gaze at him for a couple more seconds before plopping down on his chair.

The room is quick to fill with the amazing smell of fresh coffee and melting butter. Virgil stretches his spine one last time, groaning, and takes his place behind the table. He wraps his fingers around the mug, the expression on his face becoming stubborn. The mug must be scalding hot... What a fool. Sighing, Remy reaches for the croissant. The pastry is pleasantly warm, and watching it stretch as he slowly rips off a piece is a real visual treat.

Virgil takes a sip of coffee, sighing in content, and deftly wraps his lips around the offered piece.

“Damn,” he says, chewing. "Logan really outdid himself.”

“Don't forget he has just started,” Remy smirks, offering another piece. “A month or two, and he will use his baking powers for chantage.” Another sip of coffee, this time a bigger one since it cooled down a little, and another piece. “I bet Roman will be the first to crawl on his knees, begging Logan to make something for him.”

Virgil snorts. “Oh he will be on his knees regardless of damn pastries.” Remy pauses in his movements, confused. Virgil quirks an eyebrow at him. “Seriously? You didn't notice? You? Mister l-know-everyone's-sleeping-schedule?”

“You mean to tell me—” Remy starts and gives a delighted laugh when Virgil nods. “Holy shit.” Holy _shit_. Their resident nerd and prince have been having really good fun, it seems. Remy wonders if it's just sex or something more between the two. His mind jumps back to the early morning when Logan gave him a hug. Seems that Logan really has gone softer... And Roman might be a reason for that...

Thinking of his friends finding new sort of happiness in each other makes Remy feel happy too. The fact that he has such an awesome opportunity to tease doesn't factor in at all. Well. Maybe a little bit. He wonders, though, how Virgil has come to know about them.

“By the way, how did y—”

Words suddenly get stuck in Remy's throat as he watches, horror filling him, Virgil dunk the tip of the second croissant into the little dip-pot of fake-McDonalds sauce.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Remy hisses, gesturing at Virgil's hands. Virgil raises a questioning eyebrow at him, continuing to chew. “Who the _fuck_ dips fresh croissants into McDonald's sauce?”

Virgil shrugs. He tilts the almost empty dip-pot, collecting the rest of the peach-colored sauce on the pastry. “I do. It's good.”

“Logan didn't wake up at the ass-of-clock in the morning for you to do that!” Remy exclaims. Virgil looks anything but impressed. “I mean it! He deserves better! _You_ deserve better!” Virgil makes a little _Mmhm_ sound. “It's a baked masterpiece, and you're ruining it!”

Honestly, the nerve! Logan didn't study the recipes and waste ingredients and learn the perfect technique for his creation to be cursed by a mass-produced cheap sauce!

“Oh boy, I don't know, call French ambassador or something, they will ban me right on the spot,” Virgil deadpans. “Seriously, are you pastry police?” And just as Remy opens his mouth to spit a sassy _Yes_, Virgil darts forward and pushes a piece of a sauce-covered croissant into Remy's mouth. Virgil's fingers linger there, a bit sticky and very warm. Their tips brush Remy's lips as he closes his mouth on reflex. And... and Virgil's doesn't take his hand away as Remy chews.

When Remy swallows, they both lean back into their own chairs as if on a silent command. Remy takes a sip of his drink, careful not to make a sound when sucking on the straw. The silence fills him with relief because he would have no idea what to say to Virgil if he asked him about the taste because, frankly, he barely registered whatever flavor there was on his tongue. The only thing he was thinking of was the warmth of Virgil's fingers against his lips.

A couple of hours later, long after Remy left his friend's room, the silence not broken until the end and the tray in hand, after mindless phone browsing and staring blankly at the horizon at the Imagination, he can, finally, remember that the taste was, indeed, good.

***

Remy's plan to silently observe Roman and Logan to see if there are any signs of them being together is quickly thrown out of the window when he accidentally stumbles onto them kissing each other in a dim corridor four days later. Logan is pressing Roman into the wall, his hands cupping Roman's face, and the kiss is fast and filled with heat. But to Remy's clever eyes it doesn't look like a kiss born of mindless arousal, no. More like... trying to get more of each other after being parted for long, trying to give and take at the same time. And considering they spend quite an amount of time together... It seems two lovebirds simply can't get enough of each other. Huh. So that's how it is.

Feeling inexplicably soft and pleased, Remy decides not to disturb the two.

He helps Patton make preparations for dinner: some really fancy meat dish that needs, like, twenty different spices of every sort, involves a lot of chopping and time for every stage of cooking, but, as Patton promises, will taste so good everyone will cry.

No one actually cries at dinner, but also no one talks, which is a first. Even _Remus_ is silent, shoving juicy pieces of meat into his mouth with enthusiasm and gulping down the red wine (another two bottles of which went into the cooking pot). Remy is not surprised. The dish really is the best thing he's ever eaten, and it definitely is worth each and every hour put into it.

Now that Remy knows the truth, it's really easy to see the glances Roman and Logan exchange for what it's worth. When the tea is served, a big plate with gooseberry jam-filled cookies in the middle of the table, everyone is talking in low voices, almost murmuring, and when Roman smiles at Logan, his eyes are full of more than mirth that might come from a friendly teasing.

“They're disgusting,” Remy announces, falling on the bean-bag in Virgil's room. He has a bowl of pinkish gooseberries in one hand and little scissors in another for the tails. Virgil refused to eat the cookies and grabbed a bowl of fresh berries instead.

Virgil plops down on the floor, comfortably nested against the bean-bag. “No shit. I've caught them holding pinkies one time.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.” Virgil rests his head near Remy's thigh and catches the offered berry on his tongue. “Oof. Sour. But yeah. Logan _giggled_.”

Remy groans in a faux annoyance. His friends having casual sex is one thing. _That_ he could handle with dignity, meaning teasing them endlessly until they combust. But his friends being smitten with each other is a completely different thing. Makes Remy feel all mushy. Yikes.

Virgil scrunches his nose after every eaten berry, and Remy smiles at that. His own mouth fills with saliva when he imagines the sourness.

They chat some more about the blooming romance, about the upcoming vacation Thomas has planned, about Remus’ birthday next month and what to give him. The bowl of berries slowly becomes empty as Remy dutifully follows the rhythm of _take a berry — cut off the tail — give it to Virgil — repeat_ almost automatically. For a moment Remy becomes lost in thought about the dream he probably will craft as a gift, and then the silence of the room breaks as he yelps in surprise and pain.

“Virgil, what the fuck?” Remy snaps, taking his left hand — that Virgil has just fucking bitten — away. The tip of his ring finger is pulsing with dull pain.

“Don't go daydreaming me,” Virgil says like the absolute bastard he is, craning his neck back to look at him. Remy glares back, his lips pursed, feeling ridiculously betrayed for some reason. The staring contest lasts for five more seconds before Virgil sighs, his face softening, and reaches for the injured (it's a very loud word, but who gives a damn) hand with his. And since Remy trusts in Virgil explicitly-fundamentally-with-all-his-heart, he lets Virgil take it.

Virgil bows his head, resting it once more against Remy's thigh, just so Remy only sees the mop of his bright grape-red hair. Remy's palm is in the gentle grip of Virgil's hand as Virgil guides it somewhere closer to his face. And then—

An electric-like shock runs all over Remy's body as he feels wet smooth heat glide against the pad of his finger.

A wave of cold follows it as Virgil blows air on the finger. The pain does fade away, just as does each and every thought in Remy's head.

It's the second time this week that Virgil catches him off guard like that.

Remy doesn't like it.

Virgil licks the finger once more, his lips almost touching the skin, follows it with another wave of air.

No, that's a lie. Remy doesn't like the fact that he _enjoyed_ being caught off guard. He enjoys the adrenaline, the new sensations, the following calmness and content filling his bones. He enjoys sharing these moments with Virgil.

Virgil finally lets go of his palm, and Remy leans back in the chair. The sun is setting down behind the window, painting the sky with colors of peach and violet. Little lights begin floating in the room, giving it a soft blue glow. It’s cozy. Even if Remy had powers to get up, he wouldn’t. Not with how breathless he feels, not with how there are weight and warmth of Virgil’s relaxed body against his leg. Remy listens to the humming at the back of his mind and a smile blooms on his face when he realises Virgil is steadily falling asleep. If Remy was a bigger man, he would usher his friend to the bed…

But he doesn’t say anything. He nestles into the bean-bag, one hand scrolling through the posts on his phone and another resting somewhere near his own thigh, just so the tips of his fingers brush against the silky strands of Virgil’s hair.

Virgil falls asleep.

Remy stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy is dumb, Virgil is forward. Just like I like them.


	3. Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um.. hi? Yes, your eyes don't deceive you, it is, indeed, a new chapter. A bit shorter than others, but hey! It's here.
> 
> No new tags. But probably want to remind you that despite being a feederism fic, I don't want to push it aggressively into readers' faces. I wanna make it as natural as I can (as much as the format/length allow it, which will be 15-20k words max), so... yeah. Bantering ahead!)

Thomas and airplanes are not a good combination, everyone knows that, especially if the flight is early.

This time isn’t an exception. With Thomas up and running at 6 AM, Remy is left with a cranky Mr Glaring-And-Not-Nicely-Faring, who manages to look both sleepy and alert at the same time. He is Remy’s responsibility first and foremost because everyone else is either busy, can’t be distracted, or both. Logan is making sure they packed everything they need; Patton, bless his sweet soul, is wandering around sleepy-happy-warm and casually cheering Logan up (and trying to convince him to pack Thomas’ favorite Funko toy with them); Roman and Remus are running around maniacally, whispering and scheming and cackling and looking like a pair of kittens seeing a loud golden candy wrapper; and Dee is everywhere at once, helping-slash-performing damage control for each member of their family.

Hence, Remy is staying with Virgil whilst trying to soothe his worries.

Remy leans on the wall beside the chair Virgil sits in. His leg bounces like crazy, his hand is pushing the buttons on the fidget toy so fast and hard it probably can break, and his eyes are manic.

“Hun, chill,” Remy tuts, going for a nonchalant tone. “Don’t you trust Logan to prepare Thomas?”

“I trust him to prepare a fucking donut,” Virgil snaps.

Remy snorts. Logan _has_ been baking obsessively lately. But that’s beside the point. And the point is, of course Virgil trusts. As Virgil, at least. As Anxiety... that’s a completely different thing.

“Speaking of donuts and fucking...”

“Don’t,” Virgil says. “Don’t even dare.” He slaps his hand over the bouncing leg, stopping it.

“What was that about donuts and fucking?” Remus yells from the corridor. Patton giggles. Thomas looks a bit sick to the stomach: he can’t stand food that early in the morning. Logan sighs and checks their seat numbers on the tickets once again.

Others start joking and bickering about food, frivolities, sex, and everything in between, raising the general noise level on the floor. Virgil’s eyes jump between all of them as he tries to follow every line of conversation, a near-impossible task. His shoulders relax, just enough to be noticed.

Remy goes down on one knee near him, looking up at him with a smile. He lays his palm over Virgil’s.

“We’ll catch a nice nap on the plane, alright?” he says. “Nice and easy. Hey,” he adds softly when Virgil evades his gaze, “it’ll be fine.”

“It absolutely will” Roman interjects, gracefully sitting down near them. “I’ve crafted a marvellous short dream for this, you will love it!”

Virgil hums. “Unless it’s about Thomas tripping right into Idris Elba’s arms and their instant beach romance, I don’t want it.” Remy catches Roman’s panicked gaze and pinches Virgil’s ankle. Virgil looks at him — finally looks at him with those damn bright eyes — with an obvious _How dare_ written on his face and sighs. He moves his gaze to Roman and pats his shoulder. “Relax, Princey, I’m kidding. Thanks,” he says, the last word being actually sincere.

Of course, the flight goes fine. The check-in is fast, the seat neighbours are civilized, and Thomas falls asleep almost instantly, a sleep mask tugged over his eyes. Virgil doses off in his own room, nestling over the covers of the bed. Remy stays near, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest and stomach, and resisting taking a photo or two of his sweet calm sleeping face.

Everyone is a bit groggy as they lend and the whole way to the hotel, but after a nice cold shower that makes Remy feel like he drank ten blackest cups of coffee at once, energy levels are restored. As Thomas goes out to have breakfast, Patton and Logan cook for their group.

“Rise and shine!” Remy declares, rather obnoxiously loud, sauntering into Virgil’s room. “Or is it rise and gloom in your case?”

“It’s rise and kick your ass,” Virgil mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “Shut up and gimme coffee.”

Remy rolls his eyes and plops down on the bed as soon as Virgil grabs the mug from his hands. As he sips the magical saving power elixir (because that’s what coffee with sugar and milk is), Remy takes a moment to simply look at him, so pale and dishevelled, real bags under his eyes, dry lips, washed-out T-shirt looking too big on him. It’s the sight Remy never gets tired of. It’s... he’s…

Remy knows what word just begs to be said. It’s just that he is afraid to let this line of thought get started. Not now. Not... not yet.

With a long satisfied sigh, Virgil finishes his coffee and unceremoniously drops the empty mug on the floor. Good thing they are figments of imagination, not real people. Virgil would be a hazard to family expenses.

“Now give me pancakes or give me death,” he says, yawning. “Pat _did_ make pancakes, right?”

“Your life is safe, babes,” Remy promises. ”Tons of them.”

They slowly migrate to the kitchen, easy conversation flowing. Patton greets them with a smile, drawing lines on a stack of pancakes with a chocolate sauce, and Virgil snickers, noticing that he is actually drawing a bunch of funny looking dicks. The plate, and no surprise here, goes to Remus. He accepts it with a yelp of delight and runs off, probably back to whenever Roman is. They both will be very busy today, what’s with the shooting, singing and all that.

“Dig in before they get cold! I tried this new recipe, they’re very thin and just melt in your mouth!” Patton says, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. “And lmma find Lo and Dee, they’re still cooped up upstairs,” he shakes his head.

As soon as Patton leaves the two of them alone, Virgil slumps over the table, burrowing his head into his crossed arms. His hair falls around in a beautiful sangria-colored halo, and Remy spends the inappropriately-long three seconds staring at the darker short hairs on his nape and thinking about how soft they must be.

Pancakes are hot but not too much, and Remy rips the pieces off with his hands. The taste is delightful on his tongue, sweet and soft and melting, and he finishes three of them without noticing.

Virgil groans, shifting his shoulders. He props his chin on his forearm and glares at the plate from behind the thick fringe.

“Come on, you little monster,” Remy laughs, kind and affectionate. “Sit up. Those are delicious. Here,” he says and offers Virgil a long jaggy piece of a pancake. “Try it. It’ll wake you up.”

Virgil sighs. He cocks his head to the side, then jerks it, flipping the hair off his face, and catches the piece on his tongue, curling it carefully. A weird short wave of heat washes over Remy at the sight but he ignores it. Virgil chews thoughtfully and nods.

“Needs strawberry sauce,” he mumbles. And indeed, Patton has left numerous little saucers with jams, chocolate sauce, maple syrup, sour cream... And Remy can't help but wonder, if…

He dips his pointer finger into the bright red sauce and brings it to Virgil’s lips. He holds his breath.

Virgil’s wide long tongue, that fascinated Remy just some moments ago, slips past Virgil’s lips and licks the sauce off the finger.

Remy doesn’t breathe.

A second passes. Another. And Virgil opens his eyes. Their gazes meet. A heartbeat—

—and Virgil abruptly stands up, rushing to the kitchen counter.

“I want some tea,” he declares, sounding a hundred times more lucid than before. Remy watches him fumble with mugs and boxes and then lets his gaze drop to the table. Fuck, fucking idiot, why couldn’t you shove your damn curiosity deeper? Control your fascination that you’re too much of a coward to admit isn’t sudden?

Fuck. He crossed a boundary and made Virgil uncomfortable. Something he vowed to never do. Apologize, apologize pronto, you coffee-for-brains idiot!

“Want some too?” Virgil asks suddenly. Remy’s head snaps up. Virgil is pouring boiling water into the mug, holding the tea bag’s thread with the other hand. Remy just shakes his head. “Mm-kay,” Virgil shrugs. He dangles the bag up and down in the mug a couple of times, takes it out, pours cold water from the filter into the mug. He comes back to sit down at his chair, takes a huge gulp of tea and only then notices Remy staring at him. “What?”

Remy chokes. “You—” _don’t take out the tea bag after ten seconds, you don’t dilute it with ice-cold water, no one fucking makes tea that way, why am I even spending time with a heathen like you holy shit— No, wait, no more antagonizing right now, open your piehole and apologize, dammit—_ “Want more pancakes?”

“What do you _think_?” Virgil says and continues to just... sit, both hands wrapped around a mug.

“I...”

“With raspberry sauce,” Virgil adds and watches him. With intention. With expectation.

And Remy can’t say no. He rips another piece and gathers a generous amount of sauce on it, jam smearing on his fingertips. Virgil leans a bit forward and carefully catches the still warm pancake between his teeth. Remy waits, hand hovering near Virgil’s mouth.

Virgil chews, eyes closing for a second, licks his lower lip and then gathers the remnants of the jam from Remy’s fingers with a wide strong swipe of his tongue.

“And how is it?” Remy asks, almost not recognizing the hoarse notes in his voice.

“Good,” Virgil says and... smiles at him. “Chocolate next.”

Remy smiles, first unsurely, and then it grows into a full-blown grin.

He feeds Virgil, a piece after piece, and they try all the sauces while bantering, and somehow Virgil eats everything that was on the plate, which was at least a dozen pancakes if not more.

And as Virgil leans back in his chair with a satisfied face, relaxed, Remy thinks that maybe there’s nothing to apologize for. That maybe the light dusting of pink on Virgil's cheeks is not only from waking up and drinking hot tea, and not even from him having a full belly. Maybe it’s the result of Remy’s presence. And that his presence is a good thing. Not overbearing. And he didn’t overstep Virgil’s boundaries. Just... accidentally found one that they both didn’t know isn’t a stopping point for them anymore.

And for some reason, the craving to feel the touch of Virgil’s tongue on his fingers doesn’t scare him anymore.

In fact, it doesn’t scare him at all, he realises in the following weeks. The act of letting Virgil lick the sauce from his fingers becomes a new norm, and the instances of Remy reaching for a napkin to clean his hand become much rarer. He would call it a new routine, but routine is something boring and mind-numbing, and what he has with Virgil is definitely none of these things. It’s good.

It’s so-so-so good and feels like a mix of inner calmness and excitement. It’s an oxymoron. Remy loves it.

Which is why when the time comes for Remy to go back into the Subconscious for his regular visit (which is a bit overdue), he hopes he won’t miss it too much in the upcoming days.

Remy leaves after breakfast they share on a Sunday morning (if you count noons as morning time). After dutifully feeding Virgil banana-and-chocolate muffin, Remy salutes his goodbye, getting a grunt in response and steps through the planes of Thomas’s mind right into the iridescent nacre fields of the Subconscious. He doesn’t tell anyone he leaves, just like he never does. Everyone knows he disappears from time to time to bask in the zenith of his function and always comes back.

Remy steps softly on the invisible steps and breathes in the after-the-rain smell that always greets him here.

And it’s so very easy to let all the thoughts and worries go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a clearer plan for the next chapter (in addition to the general roadmap, which I always had), so, hopefully, it won't be THAT long before the next update...


	4. Four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here I'm back again! This chapter is a bit heavier than the others, but nothing too heavy. Tags are updated.  
Enjoy!

Stepping back into the Mindscape feels like the gravity is pushing at his shoulders with much more ferocity than measly nine-point-eight.

Remy takes deep slow breathes, rolling his shoulders. Fifteen minutes of uncomfortable adjusting are always worth those days he gets to spend in the Subconscious, but boy golly it sucks and messes up with his head. A tall faux-Starbucks cup with ice-cold tea appears in his palm, and he drinks the raspberry-scented beverage with vigor.

He strolls through the corridors, humming a tune that sounds suspiciously like Girls/Girls/Boys chorus, his free hand trailing touch against the walls and furniture, getting the feel of the textures. He walks towards the sound which comes from the living room.

Remy climbs the short stairs and steps into the room, a cocky smile gracing his face when he notices Logan and Roman hunched over a paperbound book, pressed closely against each other.

"So when does the kissing start?" he asks loudly. "Or am I too early for the show?"

The sides whip their heads to look at him... And instead of amusement and/or irritation Remy reads panic on their faces like they’re a pair of deers caught in the light and thinking they’re going to be hit by a 20-ton track in a second.

"Remy!" Roman cries out, drama in his voice much more real than usual.

Remy blinks. "Uh... hi?" The fuck?

"Remy, you fucking _dolt!_" Roman says even louder, and ouch? This is what he gets as a warm welcome? 

"Logie, you boyfriend is being rude," Remy takes a sip of tea.

Logan stares at him for a moment. "I’m afraid you being a dolt is an apt description." And, before Remy can choke out a response: "Something is wrong with Virgil."  


It’s like all the blood in Remy’s body suddenly turns into ice-cold water.

"He has been in his room the whole time you were gone," Roman says, watching him carefully. "Like, he went out one time, the day you left, and then shut himself inside. Patton is worried sick." Roman sighs. "Virgil hasn't eaten anything Padre brought him." He looks at Logan for a moment and then back at Remy. "We were hoping you would know what to do."

"Guys, what’s with all the— Remy!" Patton exclaims mid-sentence. His eyes are wide open behind the glasses, full of relief and hope. "Oh. My. _Gosh_. Come here!" He makes an inviting gesture at Remy, and Remy, still fighting the shock, follows him. Patton dashes around the kitchen, grabbing things from the cupboards and the drawers and the fridge. Remy finally realizes he is putting together a meal. "It‘s just some finger food," Patton says quickly, "some sandwiches, and this is a last piece of pie— oh, bell peppers! And juice. No, wait, Roman, heat this up," Patton points at a glass of just-poured milk and then quickly stirs some butter and honey into it as starts to steam lightly. He puts everything on an enormous tray. "I'll make something hot too. Please take it to him?"

And like he is in a trance, Remy takes the tray, struggling under its weight, and heads into Virgil’s room. The part of the corridor close to the room seems darker than usual. Colder. Remy’s heart beats like crazy.

Standing right front of the door, Remy takes a deep breath. He whispers code words to the lock, and the door opens softly without a single creak.

The weak light of the dawn is panting a golden-red strip across the room, making it easy to see the dust and the array of cluttered things. Remy carefully steps over a white T-shirt, evades a ripped stress-ball, moves past a fallen-over mug, rim painted with stains of coffee.

The giant bundle of blankets and plaid on the bed moves, slowly, heavily, like a living mountain waking up from its deep slumber. Something falls with a soft thud — a pair of headphones, it seems. The movement stills.

Unexpected warmth blooms in Remy’s chest, and he smiles, amused and adoring. And the word that he was so afraid to even think comes to his mind, blooming there.

_Precious._

He treads carefully towards the bed and puts the tray on the nightstand. He is even more careful when he sits down on the edge of the bed, it dipping under his weight, and pushes his palm under the blankets. When his fingertips meet the crude big stitches, he smiles. Of course Virgil would still wear his hoodie. He trails fingers down and feels the soft skin of Virgil’s hand, touches the sweaty inside of his palm, lets their fingertips meet. Virgil’s hand is still until it isn’t. It reaches out to repeat the patterns on Remy’s palm, touches the old leather of his bracelet and stills once more.

"Remy."

His voice is so hoarse, telling a story all by itself: how Virgil hasn't talked in almost three days, hasn't had a drink, has only slept and slept and slept.

And then, without further prompting, the mountain of blankets moves, the soft hissing of fabrics almost managing to conceal the ragged breathing coming from the inside of it, and Virgil finally shows, hair unbelievably mussed, bags under his eyes so dark they can be mistaken for make-up, lips dry and beginning to crack. Remy casts a glance at the tray he’s brought. Ah-ha! He dips his pointer finger in the warm milk and then traces it over Virgil’s lower lip, spreading the buttered-and-honeyed liquid. Virgil presses his lips together, rubbing them lightly against each other, and exhales. Remy offers him the whole glass, and Virgil takes it, pale fingers wrapping around it. His first sip is really small, but he looks incredibly relieved. His poor throat must feel much better now. As Virgil drinks, Remy cuts up the sandwiches into smaller pieces, the bread milky-white and not leaving crumbs.

Virgil is... hungry. He eats the first sandwich piece almost thoughtfully, tasting it, chewing, but then he awakens fully and quickly consumes everything that Remy gives him. He eats all the sandwiches, licking his lips clean from the mayo and mustard, he crunches on the bell peppers, he eats a dozen of soft tiny honey cakes, gulps down a glass of juice, bites almost angrily at the piece of soft tvorog pie, his lips grazing against the inside of Remy’s palm when he bites at the crust. He doesn’t show any signs of slowing down, and Remy is low-key starting to panic when he sees the tray is almost empty, but then there's a knock on the door, a warning, and a second tray appears, hovering over the first one. Remy gently switches places, putting the empty one away.

And the next round starts. Virgil goes through a bowl of baked garlic-y baby potatoes, a handful of yellow cherry tomatoes, wincing slightly at their sweet acidity, goes through another glass of juice, then he takes one look at the tray and mumbles something about hating the taste of wood. Puzzled, Remy looks too. Ah. Patton put little wooden sticks into the grilled-meat-and-cheese canapes. Without ever pausing to think he picks up a stick, slides the canape off and brings it to Virgil's lips. They make their way through all of them, Virgil's lips glistening with meat juices. His cheeks are flushing light red and his eyes look much more alive. Remy brings a glass of lemon water to his lips, and Virgil drinks it greedily, almost choking.

"Hey, slow down there," Remy says, containing a chuckle. "You're gonna choke." 

"_You_ are gonna choke when I strangle you," Virgil snaps immediately. "Fucking shut up and _feed_ me."

And Remy shuts up instantly. Chills run down his spine, and he has to concentrate to not let his palm shake as he picks a piece of apricot. Thankfully, Virgil finally slows down, chewing more slowly, probably feeling the real taste of the food for the first time.

Remy catches a drop of apricot juice sliding down Virgil’s chin with his thumb. For a moment, their gazes meet, Virgil watching him from under his heavy lids, and he looks a second away from nuzzling into Remy’s palm like a big cat after a big dinner...

Of course, Virgil does nothing of the sort. But Remy’s heart still beats too fast, still waiting for something that's not going to happen.

The tray becomes finally empty, Virgil successfully finishing the apricots, pears and everything on the cheese plate. Remy drinks his own cold tea, watching Virgil drink the last of the water. When he finishes, he plays with the empty glass in his hands, turning it this and that way. He is silent, not in a broody way, more in... serious, contemplative way.

Virgil says something, so quietly Remy doesn’t catch that.

"I’m sorry, what did you..?" he starts, and shock runs through him when those favourite eyes of his glare at him with an incredible intensity.

"Never do that again," Virgil says, his voice deep, echo around its edges. "You hear me? _Never_."

And Remy knows what he is talking about. And guilt thrums in his head, his temples throbbing, and he doesn’t even know if that guilt is something he deserves. But it’s still there, and he wants to make up for his carelessness. Virgil didn’t deserve to suffer because Remy’s dumb ass hasn’t realised what kind of responsibility he took on himself.

It’s a good kind of responsibility. The honorable kind. Not a burden.

This started as a way to let him fulfill his function but... It’s more now. New and important and scary and Remy has already fucked up so much.

"Never," he says. A promise to Virgil. A promise to himself.

And Virgil... seems to read everything unsaid from that one word. A smile hides at the corners of his lips, the hint of laughter lines at the corners of his eyes. He takes a deep breath and disappears back into the heap of blankets only to push them all away from the bed in one powerful move. That’s such a childish thing to do and reminds Remy of the times when child Thomas would hide under the blankets just to leap forward to scare his mom, roaring like one of his favourite dinosaurs.

Absolutely adorable.

Virgil extends his hand towards him. Remy blinks dumbly and puts his cup into his palm. He watches as Virgil’s Adam's apple bobs as he drinks the tea.

"So..." Virgil says, drawing out a long ’oh’. "You would _not_ believe what I heard Patton and Remus talk about yesterday behind my door." He looks at Remy. Smirks. Pats a place near him on the bed.

A grin slowly stretches Remy’s lips.

He settles beside Virgil, listening with fascination and giggling and gasping dramatically, with almost no space between the two of them, relieved that he, apparently, didn’t fuck up as much as he thought he did.

And if sometimes his gaze wanders for a second towards Virgil’s lips and if his mind replays Virgil’s stern order to feed him over and over and over again...

That’s a problem for later.

Or maybe not even a problem at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the plot points I wanted to write from the very beginning. I'm not me without a smidgen of angst.


End file.
